A. L. BISHOP is writing
For readers who find the aftermath more compelling than the catastrophe, I write about mundane horrors, the laughable unfunny, and the borders of human kindness, having always been most curious about what life looks like once the camera crews move off the lawn.
“cinematic, contemporary noir”
“a breezy sense of despair”
“spare, sly humour and quiet revolutions”
thing that has happened to me lately is that one Friday, at the side of a road I drive every single weekday, a low, weatherbeaten cabin with a corrugated metal roof appeared in a field. It was at least 90 years old, and I had never noticed it before. I asked four people who drive the same road about it, and while everyone agreed they had seen it, none could remember it being there earlier. I decided the field owners had cut down a tree or cleared some brush to make it visible for the first time in decades.
But by Monday, it was gone again, with no trace of debris or disturbance in the tall grass.